


A study in alternatives

by Paralelsky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, fem!John (Joan Watson), psychic!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paralelsky/pseuds/Paralelsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short stories, mostly with AU elements.</p><p>Story 01:Meet Dr. Joan Watson, part army medic invalidated from Afghanistan, part sidekick and blogger to the world's only Consultant Detective and part…psychic. Problem? (Psychic, Aftermath)</p><p>Story 02: Snapshots - Sherlock's and Joan's life caught in 9 song titles.(S.O.S.(rescue me), Unfaithful, Rehab, Russian Roulette, Cry, Te amo, Photographs, Cold case love, The last song)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Psychic

It is raining. Of course it is, because her hands are full with groceries bags and there's no possible way that she can juggle those and her umbrella to make it safe and dry to the flat. For just one split of a second she wonders if she should risk it. Dash into the rain, make it home and then have a real hot shower, followed by an equally hot tea and a good night sleep. Except that with a flat mate like hers there are very high chances she won't even make through the door before she has to turn around and start running.

Usually on the trail of a killer.

So no, going out in the rain without protection is not an option.

Her war wounded shoulder agrees with her decision. The fully grown cactus that has taken residence in her throat after an entire morning of unpleasant tingling agrees as well, and apparently there's also a headache just waiting from behind her eyes for the perfect moment to jump in and join the party.

Doctor Joan Watson helplessly looks as the deluge coming down from the sky, sighs in frustration and thinks that the only thing missing from the picture is a good kidnapping.

She gets the next best thing when a silent, black limousine parks just in front of her and a sharply dressed woman, never looking up from her Blackberry, comes out of the car and stops by her right side.

"Hello…Anthea." Joan greets hesitantly.

"Doctor Watson." Anthea barely looks up from her cell phone to frown a little at the bags resting besides Joan's feet. "You can leave your groceries here. Someone will come and take them to your flat."

"Alright, then." Joan nods and places her bags as to not be in anyone's way and in three quick steps she's in the car. The ride through London's busy streets is silent but not oppressive, and after she's abandoned the idea of finding out where they are going, Joan closes her eyes and rests her achy head on the leather upholstery. She really hopes they have enough cold medicine lying around in the flat. Lord knows she won't be in any shape to get out and buy some when she finally arrives home.

For once they don't end into an unused warehouse, and after a brief stop in front of a nondescript building, is Mycroft Holmes himself who joins them in the car. The moment he's in, the doors automatically lock down and Joan feels the first stirrings of uncertainty.

"Hello Mycroft." Her tone is mild, they have agreed on first names by the third impromptu meeting.

"Joan." He nods briefly and then scans her with his eyes, much in the same manner his brother does every time she returns to the flat. It is fairly disconcerting, but Joan has learned to almost ignore it. Still, she's certain that by the end of their chat there will be another bag, containing cold medicine, sitting next to her groceries.

"What can I do for you, Mycroft?" Joan decides on the direct approach. "Nowadays you just stop by the flat when you want something." Despite the dread, she's also feeling a bit curious.

"Doctor Joan Watson. It has come to my attention that you possess a rather unusual gift." His smile is positively shark like. He looks quite pleased with himself. Joan just looks and feels nauseated.

She takes a deep breath to calm her fluttering nerves. She considers for a moment the merits of denial, before she realizes he would have never approached the topic if he wasn't sure about the information.

"I'm afraid your sources might have exaggerated this time." She shrugs and tries to keep calm. She briefly acknowledges that both her hands are steady. Joan is sure Mycroft has already picked up that little detail.

"And I really don't think they did."

"Who?"

"Miriam Webster."

 _Hell,_ Joan briefly closes her eyes and admits defeat. From all the people they could have talked with, Mycroft's men had to pick the one person to whom Joan had foolishly spilled the whole story after a night of drinking in celebrating the end of their finals. If only the alcohol had done its job and wiped out the memories of all involved, things would have gone a lot smoother.

 _If wishes were horses…Well, there's no point in hiding anymore,_ and with that Joan sits a bit straighter.

"I believe you have a photograph for me?" She holds her hand expectedly, while Anthea fishes out the required item from a slick briefcase.

"Name?"

"Alexander Gunner." Mycroft replies steadily. He's still smiling but there's a hint of… something deeply hidden in his penetrating gaze. Joan would call it unease, but that's too strong of a word for it and then she wonders if she's imagining the whole thing.

 _It doesn't matter; nothing does,_  except for the picture she's currently holding: a young, blond man, smiling crookedly at the camera. Joan concentrates on it, letting the whole world fade around her, but she can't see anything. She stops before she gives herself an even bigger headache than the one she's currently nursing, relief slowly filling her. Maybe she's lost  _it_ , after spending so many years trying to ignore  _it,_ and she's ready to cheerfully tell Mycroft and his entourage  _to go to hell_ , when something niggles at the edge of her vision. Like a limb she's forgotten she had and now it's slowly unfolding from a very awkward position, something opens up inside her mind and her question is out before she has the time to think about it.

" _Real_ name?"

"Very good, Joan. It has taken my team half a day to find out that was actually an alias." Mycroft seems approving but Joan is careful not to look at him directly. Sometimes, when she's open like that, her gift latches on the people around her and pries out their most hidden secrets. Mycroft, she's sure, would not appreciate that.

"Try Alexei Piotr Senckievic." Anthea doesn't look up from her Blackberry, but for the moment her typing has stopped.

"Right. Thank you." Joan gives the other woman a tight-lipped smile and then she goes back on concentrating on the photograph. The image blurs, the colours bleeding one into another and suddenly the car and its inhabitants disappear  _and she's standing in a hotel room, next to the dead body of the same man she was trying to find. The setting sun bathes the whole room in an orange glow giving an almost surreal quality to the whole picture. Joan looks around; trying to find out where exactly is she. There's a small notebook near the telephone, an emblem and an address printed on it._

"…Holliday Inn Express Bristol. Hotel apartment, second floor. The man is dead, shot in the back of his head, execution style. …." Joan delivers the facts clinically, half of her still caught inside the vision as she's slowly regaining her senses. Near her, Anthea is typing at a dizzying speed. Mycroft is no longer smiling.

"Impressive" he says, watching her speculatively. "What else can you tell me about him?"

"Not much," Joan murmurs distracted. There's a bunch of numbers flashing across her vision, and while she can't tell what they stand for, there's no doubt they are important to the case. "Pen and paper, please."

Anthea searches for the items, but it's Mycroft that leans over and hands them over: several sheets of paper and a metallic, expensive pen. He's still holding them when she tries to grab the pen and the next vision hits her as a sucker-punch in her gut:  _a stern looking man holding a reluctant looking child by his arms while saying "I'm very disappointed, Mycroft."_ … Then Mycroft finally lets go and Joan feels like she can finally breathe again. Cautious she looks at the pen, at Mycroft and then back at the pen, and bits her lip to stop herself from asking.

Mycroft subtly clears his throat and Joan is reminded that  _that_  is none of her business. The man in the photograph is, and once she switches her focus, the numbers come back. Dutifully she jots them down and after, like an afterthought, she adds the name Mary Ann Inversson right beneath them.

"Track these bank accounts and the sums I've pointed for each of them and you'll find what it is you are looking for." Joan says quietly, fatigue slowing her speech. She feels drained and, most likely looks so, because Mycroft just plucks the paper from her unresisting fingers, peers with interest at the numbers written on it and then hands it to his assistant. "Thank you, Joan. My pen, if you please?"

"Oh, sorry, I didn't realize." Joan hands him the pen, but when he moves to take it from her, her right hand shots out and grabs his wrist. Anthea tenses, like a cat ready to pounce, but Mycroft stalls her with a small shake of his head. His gaze is focused on Joan, more exactly on her eyes, which at the moment are so dilated they seem completely black. When she speaks, her voice has the same clinically detached tone she used earlier to describe the state of the late mister Senckievic. "Senckievic's death is not a coincidence. Nor is Davies and Assisi."

Mycroft pales a bit, clenches his jaw, but doesn't pull his hand from Joan's bruising grip. Once again, Anthea has started typing furiously. "Anything else?"

"Don't leave your assistant's sight for the next 72 hours. She's a much better shot than you would ever hope to be." And Joan falls silent; as the rigidity that has gripped her slowly bleeds away, leaving her almost slumped in the seat.

"Thank you, Joan, for your time." Mycroft says as he gently extracts his hand from her lax hold. Joan blinks a little startled, as if waking up, and then she sends him a searching look, clearly unsure of what he was going to do next. Mycroft smiles briefly, a bit more sincere than before, and then he starts to confer with his assistant in hushed tones.

Joan lets them be, and in a few moments the car parks in front of 221B Baker Street. She's out of the car as soon as it stops, but before she closes the car door she can't resist a final advice. "Mycroft take care. Sherlock would be impossible to live with if anything were to happen to you."

"I will, Joan." Mycroft nods his head in parting, evidently done with the meeting.

Knowing that it is the best reassurance she can get, Joan closes the car door and makes her way to the entrance of the flat where a bulky man in a black suit patiently waits with her groceries. She opens the door and calls him in. "Come on then, Paul. There's no point in hiding anything from Sherlock and I would rather I didn't have to haul these bags all the way up to the flat."

 _Clever woman -_ sitting in the car, Mycroft smirks approvingly at her handling of the situation and then he turns back his attention to Anthea.

"Sir, the reports just came in. Davies is dead as well; traffic accident just 20 minutes ago and we can't contact Assisi."

"I see. Well it seems that Doctor Joan Watson is the real deal. Update her status. And, Anthea?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Unleash the Dogs of War."


	2. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sherlock being obtuse and flying pillows.

The next three days are a nightmare. The cold plays its part, sniffles and painful throat and fever, but it's the throbbing headache, at her temples and right behind her eyes, that frays her temper. Even Sherlock stays clear of her most of the time, when he's not busy with a case or his clumsy attempts at being helpful, and Joan is caught between irritation and endearment at his antics.

As the days progress, Joan grits her teeth and tries not to snap too much, because it's like someone has opened a valve in her head and suddenly she can't even drink her  _bloody_ tea without getting second-hand impressions. And Good Lord,  _ignorance is bliss_  and no wonder Sherlock ever eats at home, judging by some of the things he's stored in the pots over time. She's buying new ones, as soon as she can handle going out of the house, but for now, to keep her sanity, Joan stays holed up in her room.

Sometimes the images and feelings get so bad; she almost makes it to where they stashed the bottle of expensive brandy Sherlock has received as payment for solving a case six weeks ago. Harry has always said that drinking helped her drown the voices, but being an alcoholic, Harry needs little incentive to drink, so Joan doesn't put too much stock on her opinion. Oh, but she's tempted,  _so tempted,_  and only the image of Harry with white and sweaty face and trembling hands, stops Joan from grabbing the bottle.

And then, in the eve of the third day something shifts. It feels as if the mental plumber has finally arrived, because the pressure gradually starts to lessen. It goes from a full blast of images and sensations, to a steady trickle, one that's easily managed. And after almost 72 hours worth of mental torture Joan can finally begin to rebuild the walls allowing her to function as a normal human being and not a recluse. She knows they will never be as strong as they were while she had served in Afghanistan, but she'll learn to live with that.

And who knows, maybe someday, this gift of hers will save hers and Sherlock's lives. But for now, it's a bloody nuisance.

Feeling marginally more human, Joan spends the morning sleeping, and then she gets up, takes a shower and scavenges the kitchen for something to eat. She pays no attention to the dead human parts in the fridge or just sitting on the kitchen counter in colourful jars and after grabbing a fresh cup of tea she curls in her chair with a trashy romance novel. It's as close to bliss as she's been in the last days.

Sherlock, of course, chooses that moment to ruin it.

If he's surprised to see her out of her room when he gets inside the flat, he doesn't show it, and after carelessly putting his coat on the hanger he drapes himself on the sofa in his usual manner. It's routine, and after a brief greeting, they stay in comfortable silence. Joan can finally feel the rest of the tension she's been carrying around, leaving her, even though she can tell his gaze is on her, as if she's an experiment that hasn't gone the way he's been expecting. Joan has learned to ignore it.

Then, as never before, he puts the TV on.  _The shocking results of a yearlong investigation from the Scotland Yard….As Lord Blackwood was taken today in custody….Crime syndicate…A tale of corruption than spans for over three decades…_ The news anchor can barely contain her excitement at announcing to the world Lord Blackwood's misfortune, but Sherlock barely gives her any attention.

"Mycroft has clearly shown his hand here." Sherlock says, looking directly at Joan.

"Hm?" engrossed in her novel Joan pays him no heed.

"Yes. He and Lord Blackwood have been adversaries in a political chess game for years. It's only recently that something has tipped the scale, for my brother to declare checkmate."

"Really?" Joan turns the page and settles more comfortably in her seat. She has reached the part were the heroine is torn between choosing the sarcastic lord or the dashing highwayman. She's enjoying it more than she should have. Sherlock certainly disapproves of her choice in literature.

"Joan." Sherlock frowns at her lack on concern. "You shouldn't get involved with my brother's business, no matter what he's offering. He will use everyone and everything in trying to reach his goal."

"Thank God that's not a family trait, then." Joan flicks her eyes from the page to see Sherlock's reaction at the jibe. The detective is scowling for a second, then his expression schools in his customary haughtiness. But he drops the subject and after changing the channels a few times, turns off the TV as well, bored with the programme selection. For a few more minutes there's peace in the flat, when: "Sherlock…where are the last one hundred pages of my book?"

"I needed to determine how many pages Mr. Kimble poisoned in order to murder his wife."

"Sherlock…This is my book."

"I would rather think establishing Mr. Kimble guilt is more important than that."

"My book. Which I am reading. At the moment."

"Honestly Joan. Why do you waste your time with such…drivel? It's obvious she'll end up with the Lord."

"Hang on, have you read it then?"

"Of course not."

"Then how do you know?"

"I deduced it from the covers."

Joan closes her eyes, counts to ten, then backwards and then asks for divine patience.

"That's not the point, Sherlock!"

"Then what is it?"

"The fact, that you used my book, without asking for my permission. Or do we have to repeat the jumper discussion. Again?"

Sherlock winces and shrinks a little in the couch. He narrows his eyes at Joan, examining her, and then he asks as if puzzled. "You're overly emotional about this. Shouldn't you be over your hormonal imbalance by now?"

Joan gapes, closes her mouth and when she speaks it comes out annoyingly high-pitched.

" _Sherlock!_ "

And the world's one and only Consultant Detective gets a clue that  _saying some things loud is a bit not good,_ when a Union Jack pillow hits him square in the face with deadly accuracy, followed in moments by the sound of Joan closing her room's door with a bang.

Sherlock lets the pillow fall, and settles on the couch in classic thinking position. After several minutes of silence he calls loudly.

"Does this mean that I can use the rest of it in my experiment?"

He takes the lack of answer as  _yes._

…

The cup of tepid tea sitting on the kitchen counter the next morning and the lack of Sherlock in the flat when Joan comes down the stairs is the only apology she's likely to receive. So she takes it as such and drains the tea without wincing too much at its overwhelming sweetness.

The crystal vase filled with black tulips - her favourite flowers, and terribly out of season - sitting in on her desk at the surgery is a surprise, but the lack of card isn't.  _No matter_ , Joan decides while playing with a fragile stem; she knows exactly who sent them.


	3. S.O.S. (rescue me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Story 02: Snapshots - Sherlock's and Joan's life caught in 9 song titles.(S.O.S.(rescue me), Unfaithful, Rehab, Russian Roulette, Cry, Te amo, Photographs, Cold case love, The last song)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rihanna is strangely inspiring, so these snapshots into Sherlock and Joan's life came to life based on the song titles that I had on my playlist. Some of them are drabblish short, while others just run away from me in terms of word count. But no matter their length I hope they express what I was trying to say. Enjoy and tell me what you think.:D

Nightmare, followed by a brutal waking up.

She's waiting motionless for the crack of dawn before indulging in a cup of tea and an apple. The empty blog page mocks her and the therapy isn't working either. And no matter how long and fast she walks through the city, life seems to rapidly leave her behind.

There's a scream trapped inside of her, gaining power with each mind-numbing day she spends caught up in the routine and Dr. Joan Watson is about to snap. The service gun hidden in the drawer starts to look too much like an answer.

 _And how appropriate,_ she'll think later, that the only person to hear her silent plea is a consulting detective masquerading as a high functioning sociopath.

One Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Unfaithful

Loyalty, according to most, is Joan Watson's defining characteristic. It has gained her Mycroft's grudging approval, Sherlock's complete acceptance and Moriarty's sneering contempt.

Sister. Lover. Soldier. Friend. Partner…Nuisance – loyal roles she's played in the course of her life.

 _ _So why_ \- as she checks her discrete make-up for the last time, grabs her coat and tosses a hurried "bye" to the sulking detective curled up on the sofa –  _why does she feel like an unfaithful wife?__


	5. Rehab

"Hey." Joan calls, almost invisible in the darkening flat, sitting quietly in her preferred seat. There's a full glass and an opened bottle of Johnny Walker in front of her, but to Sherlock's sharp eyes it's clear that she hasn't drunk a drop of alcohol, yet.

 _Something must have happened while he was away._

"You've been talking to Harry." Sherlock states, secure in his deduction.

Joan nods, even though that's a lie. It's been her mother who dropped by for a little chat, but considering the woman's been dead and buried for the last five years, the detective's mistake is understandable.

"Something she said made you uncomfortable. Enough to remind you of your father's demise." Sherlock goes on, unaware of the error he made.

"Actually, it got me thinking on the nature of addictions." Joan says, pointing at the still full glass.

"Oh?" Sherlock folds himself on the couch in front of her and then brings his fingers under his chin in classic thinking position.

"It's just that. Being an adrenaline junkie might seem more acceptable than being an alcoholic, yet it's just as likely to get me killed. More so, with the life we're leading." she lets the words trail by the end, as if she has just reached the conclusion. 

Sherlock stills, his whole body gripped by an invisible tension."Do you want to stop?" His tone holds almost no inflection.

Joan isn't fooled one bit. She looks him squarely in the eyes for a long moment, unflinching under his hard gaze, then she lets the corners of her mouth twitch upwards.

"Stop? Never."


	6. Russian Roulette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a bit of violence and angst.

Joan wakes up with a throbbing head and the taste of gravel in her mouth. She's sitting down on a wooden, uncomfortable chair, and some jerk has tied her hands behind her back tight enough that her fingers are numb. She squints - the light is dim but it's still hurting her sensitive eyes - yet no clue jumps at her telling her where she is, or how she got inside of what appears to be a…cellar.

 _Great,_ she's been kidnapped again. And if everything is to go as scheduled, then all she has to do is survive until Sherlock comes in, heading the cavalry.

_Because nothing says competent-doctor-army-veteran better than having to be rescued from crazy psychopaths and criminal masterminds roughly every three months._

Meanwhile the way her hands are tied is putting pressure on her shoulders and Joan tries to find a better position. She straightens a bit, pushes her chair so she can look for the door and it's then, when the back of her hand brushes against something that feels like another pair of numb fingers, that Joan gets a hint that maybe this time the situation is different.

 _No, it can't be,_ she thinks frantically, mind going over what she's been remembering so far. New case, dark alley, thugs armed with guns and metal pipes jumping them, Sherlock going down after a blow to the head.  _Oh, Lord!_

"Sherlock?" she calls in the silent room, croak making it almost unrecognizable.

Not one answer, not even a twitch from behind her and Joan fears for the worst. She closes her eyes and concentrates on Sherlock, his presence, his every particularity that makes him unique and  _suddenly she's standing right in front of him. He is sitting and bound, just like her, eyes closed and dried blood coming clearly from a gash to the forehead that is dirtying the right side of his face. He appears to be unconscious, which explains the silence. It's simultaneously better and worse than she was thinking, and Joan can barely repress a shiver. At her right a hidden door creaks, light spilling in the dimly lit room and_ Joan closes her eyes, a small sound of distress escaping her. She's back on the chair and can feel someone approaching, until they stop right in front of her.

"Open your eyes, Doctor Watson. I know you are awake." The speaker feels impatient, the words spoken with a long "r" that betrays his foreign origin and Joan cautiously peers at him. The light coming through the open door is a bit too strong making her blink rapidly several times, until the man sitting in front of her comes into focus.

Sharp suit, grey hair, mouth pulled into a disapproving frown and the coldest pair of blue eyes she has ever seen. He's dissecting her with them, and Joan barely restrains herself from pushing her chair backwards. She dry-swallows and defiantly raises her chin.

"Who are you? What do you want from us?" She manages to ask without wavering. Behind her, she can feel Sherlock fingers twitching lightly, sign he's coming awake and probably listening to them.

"I'm disappointed, Doctor Watson, I expected better of you two after all the warnings I received. Here you are, coming to my house, and you mean to tell me you don't know who I am? Most improper." He's mocking her, playing like a cat would do with an injured mouse. Joan has finally recognized him, having seen his face in several blurry pictures which are currently pined to the walls of 221B Baker Street and she can honestly say she's been hoping they would never run into him.

Maybe she should have paid more attention to her nightmares these couple of days and not chucked them out as worry-born bad dreams. Their chances of getting out of this alive are officially nil.

"Sergei Orloff." Joan mutters, and then feels her stomach trying to knot itself because Sergei Orloff, the Russian crime lord, is the head of one of the most ruthless and fast growing mafia groups operating on British soil and also the main suspect in the case of the disappeared Dan Sanders.

"Ah, so you do know me. Now tell me Doctor Watson, why you and your companion are sniffing around my business?" He says, cocking an eyebrow. Behind him his bodyguard shifts a little, as if his suit is ill-fitting.

"We aren't." Joan says, putting on her best innocent face. "We're just trying to find Dan Sanders."

Orloff tilts his head to the side. "I see. Would that be the same Dan Sanders who owns me 50.000 quids?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then." His casual smile drops and, without turning around, he orders his bodyguard. "Misha? Kill them."

Joan panics just as the thug starts to move. As if in slow-motion she sees him reaching for the gun he's kept hidden in a holster under his arm and in three strides he's taken the place of his master and he's pointing the gun right at her temple. She has a moment of clarity, knows she's about to die and with all the strength she still possesses she searches inside for anything that can save them. Just as the muzzle rests against her brow, she blurts fast enough that the words almost trip over themselves. "Shoot us now and you'll never found who really killed Nadia."

The hulk freezes, because Orloff has caught his hand and is looking pissed enough to do the shooting himself.

"What do you know about that?" The gun is still pointed to her. Joan wets her lips and starts speaking; all the while praying her gift won't let her down.

"On the 3rd October, twenty five years ago, she went to bed at 9 o'clock, like she did every night, locked her door after her, because you had guests coming later that night and the next morning when the servant girl went to wake her up, she was dead. Strangled with a crimson sash." As she speaks she feels herself calming, and after the first rushed words, her tone takes on a clinical quality, which is quite a contrast to her dilated pupils. She can  _see_  the details over-imposed on the reality around her and the gun threatening to kill her loses substance in her mind.

Joan doesn't know it, but it's her peculiar expression and the sure way she speaks that make Orloff listen to her claims. The crime lord motions for his bodyguard to take back his place against the wall and then he gives Joan his entire attention, as if she's a puzzle box he wants to break open.

"I know who killed her. I destroyed him, and his family, and spit on their graves."

"Yet even when you were crushing Vasili Krimkoff's neck under your foot, he still swore his family had nothing to do with Nadia's death." Joan dry-swallows, neck hurting from the strain. "Don't you want to finally know the truth?"

"And you can give it to me?" Orloff is sneering, but he's still talking to her. Somewhere inside him, an inkling of doubt has been ignited and Joan is doing her best to coerce it into a full flame.

"No, I can't. But my companion can."

"I had the best people money can buy look into this. What makes him so special?"

"They weren't him. No one is."

"You're really confident in his skills."

"That's because I know them."

"And how long would this investigation be?" He's humouring her, she can tell by the sadistic light dancing in his cold eyes, but every moment they spend speaking it's a moment in which she and Sherlock are still alive. She intends to keep it that way.

Joan pauses, and then she wets her lips. "Three hours."

"You're mocking me."

"No! I swear! I'm telling you that if you give him everything you remember about that night, in three hours he'll tell you who the real killer was."

"And tell me this, doctor Watson, what are you going to do while your friend finds me a killer?" Orloff's fingers are cupping her face, thumb resting painfully on the fresh bruise blossoming on her cheek. One gentle push and Joan closes her eyes against the new wave of pain, barely restraining a whimper. He jerks her face upwards and forces her to focus back on him. "Well?"

Behind her, she can feel Sherlock tensing like a coiled spring.

"Are you a betting man, mister Orloff?" Joan challenges with sudden inspiration, voice barely wavering.

"I think you already know the answer to that." Orloff narrows his eyes at her but takes the bait.

"Then how about a wager? I know there's a poker game going on; one where you have quite a stake in, and I bet you that if you get me in I'll win you back all the money Sanders owns you while my companion finds you the murderer."

"50.000 quids in three hours?" Orloff barks a laugh. "This I have to see."

"Exactly." Joan presses in, looking him squarely in the eyes. "What have you got to lose?"

Orloff gives her a measuring look. "I can't tell whether you're joking or plain crazy Doctor, but I'm starting to like you. So I give you and your companion the time, and in turn you tell me my daughter's real killer and win for me quite a sum of money."

"And you let us go."

"Go? I don't think so, my dear. But I'm feeling generous today so I'm letting you choose. Only one of you can get out here alive. Who is that going to be?"

Sherlock's fingers are locked with hers, gripping them as tightly as the situation allows it. Joan knows what he's trying to convey, but really there's no contest in her mind. There never was. Her voice is strong and sure when she chooses: "Him."

"Deal." Orloff sounds almost amused. "You know Doctor Watson; I might even keep you alive when all this is over." He then turns to his bodyguard. "Untie her and get her to the table. Wake him up and wait for me to get back. There are some things I have to arrange first."

As Orloff's man drags her out of the cellar, Joan catches a glimpse of Sherlock's face. The detective looks like a statue, only his eyes are rapidly moving as if he's setting up and discarding plans at the speed of light.

 _Good,_ she thinks as she's being taken out of the room.  _I bought us three hours, Sherlock. Now get us out of here!_

xxx

In the end all he needs is half an hour to turn the criminals against themselves. In the confusion caused by yelled accusations, flying fists and bullets hitting the walls alarmingly close to their heads, Sherlock and Joan make their way out of the hideout with minimum damage. It almost feels as if it's too good to be true. More so, and Joan doesn't know when, but Sherlock has managed to purloin a mobile and text Lestrade with all the pertinent details, so there are sirens disturbing the night in the distance.

But neither wants to stick around for formal reports, so they run, as fast as their legs can carry them, pumped full with adrenaline. They must have looked a little wild eyed, because even Sherlock's magic taxi summoning skills fail the first two times. The air between them is fraught with tension and every attempt at conversation dies on her lips. Sherlock is tensed as if they are still being pursued, and Joan fears for the worst.

She knows he must have heard everything she said to Orloff, and no matter how she thinks about it, there's no logical explanation for her to have known all those things. After all, there is no mention in the files about Nadia, and she's given too many details to pass it on as a lucky guess.

_As if Sherlock would have fallen for that._

They arrive at 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock takes the stairs almost two at the time. To Joan, each of the seventeen stairs she climbs feels like a step closer to the guillotine, but eventually she gets to their door. She hesitates only for a moment, then as casually as possible she opens it, sets foot in the flat and silently closes the door behind her. Sherlock is pacing in the living room, shoulders hunched.

"Sherlock," Joan breaks the silence between them and when he whirls and almost cuts her with the intensity of his gaze, she wishes she had stayed silent.

"Who are you?" the words are almost growled, and Joan suddenly fears for him. That blow to the head had been rather vicious.

"What? Sherlock, I'm Joan Watson…Your roommate."

"No. You're not. That person there was not the Joan Watson I know. So I'm going to ask you again. Who. Are. You?" he punctuates each word with a step in her direction and she has no alternative but to retreat. When the closed door blocks her, he steps into her personal space, posture rigid, eyes flashing and lips pursed and suddenly he's no longer the Sherlock she knows, but a bigger, scarier version.

"Sherlock," she timidly raises her right hand to stop him getting closer, but he catches it in an iron grip and forces it against her sternum. He places his other hand right by her head, effectively trapping her between his body and the closed door. "I hate to repeat myself." He says through clenched teeth.

It's strange how he can intimidate her more than a hideout filled with mafia hitmen, but Joan knows that she can't fight him. And maybe it's time she stopped dodging that particular bullet and told him the truth. She turns her head to the side, barring her neck in an unconscious display of submission. "What do you think?"

Something flashes in his eyes. Maybe he remembers that one conversation they had a lifetime ago, when they were navigating the murky waters of their new found relationship, or maybe he's just surprised at her surrender, but something about his posture eases a little.

"I'd say spy, but Mycroft would have never allowed you near me. Except if you were working for him. However, to live that long with me and not get discovered means you're exceptionally good, so Mycroft would have never wasted you on something as trivial as keeping an eye on me. He does know how to efficiently manage resources. No. You're something else."

"You know," Joan says after a minute of silence as his grip slowly relaxes on her wrist. "I find it telling you didn't even think about the obvious answer." Sherlock stills, tension creeping back on his frame as he's internally revising everything he knows about her. She can tell the exact moment he reaches the correct conclusion. "You're psychic."

The words fall between them as a bag full of rocks and Sherlock looks as if he can't believe he said that. But to deny the conclusion is to deny the validity of the process that created it, and that it's essentially denying himself. He can't, even though it looks as if he wants to do it badly.

"Yes," Joan acknowledges softly. "I am psychic."

"How?"

"Inherited by my mother's side. Goes back for generations. All the women in the family are to a certain degree and sometimes a man would show signs of the gift as well."

Sherlock doesn't comment and Joan can tell he's trying to integrate this new knowledge into the matrix that explains the world as he sees it.

"I thought you were improving your deductive skills when you made the odd contribution that proved to be right at the end of the case. I never expected this."

"No one ever does."

"How does it work?"

Joan lets out a frustrated sigh. The fact he's asking questions is millions times better than the reactions she was expecting him to have, but did he really have to stand so close to her? At least his body language seems to get a bit more relaxed, but he's still keeping himself in check.

"I don't know how to explain it, Sherlock. It's like this: if the human brain is a radio picking up frequencies from each our senses and decoding them to make sense of the world, mine seems to be attuned to a few more stations. And while this is sometimes deadly useful and I get things that I had no way of knowing but it helps with your case, most of the time it's just another piece of the puzzle that makes no sense and it's only giving me a headache."

Sherlock narrows his eyes "Moriarty?"

_Of course he was going to ask about that._

"No, I didn't pick on him either, until his men got me from the street, two blocks away from the flat. Psychic doesn't mean omniscient, Sherlock. And even if I saw some signs, any sign, I don't have your brain to make the connections."

"How powerful are you?"

"I don't know."

There's another moment of silence between them and then Sherlock tells her, face impassive.

"You know what this means, don't you?"

Joan finally looks right at him, worried. This is the part where in the worst case scenario he tells her to move out of the flat. "What?" she asks gathering the tattered remains of her courage.

"We need to do more experiments." And Joan slumps against the wall, all fight gone from her. She doesn't know whether to punch him or to hug him, so she settles on smiling tiredly and saying "I was afraid you'd say that."

Sherlock too relaxes, his shoulders dropping. His forehead is so close is almost resting against hers and his grip has gone slack. Without thinking, his thumb runs gentle circles on her wrist, a silent apology for his rough handling.

"Joan. What you did, back there…was good." He is almost stuttering and Joan knows this is his stunted way of saying thanks. But Sherlock isn't over yet. "But what you chose…never. Never make that choice again. Promise me."

She can't. Give her the same chance and she'll do the same thing again because in her mind there's no possible alternative with which she can live. So, instead of promising him the impossible, and lying to his face after he's just found out her biggest secret, she just raises her left hand and gently pats his shoulder.

"You're welcome, Sherlock. Now, let's get you cleaned."


	7. Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally up-to-date, so there won't be another chapter at least for a couple of days. Enjoy this one and I'd love to hear your opinions on it. Cheers! Para.
> 
> Warning: angst and a bit spoiler-ish about episode 2x03

Someone is coming up the stairs. It's not Mrs. Hudson, Joan can tell, because the woman's energy always translates into a slight pitter-patter of nervous feet. No, what she hears now is the steady, measured gait of a man. And a thumping, not rhythmical enough to be a cane, so it's most likely an umbrella.

 _Mycroft Holmes_.

And Joan just clenches her fists when the man himself comes inside. She's staying by the window, watching the rain leave tear-like stains on the glass, wrapped in the silence that's permeating the flat like a particular insidious smoke. All that's left for her is to grab the violin and she'd be a passable impersonation of the missing detective. The thought would have been funny if it weren't so sad and Joan clamps it down in the maelstrom of worry, grief, incredulousness and mounting anger that's hidden beneath her veneer of calm and stoicism.

She's still with her back at her visitor, when she feels him stop a few paces behind her. For once, she doesn't even offer a greeting, even though they had a particularly illuminating chat a week ago, when some truths have come to light.

 _I'm channeling Sherlock now,_ Joan thinks and then stills as if dozed with icy water, hating her own choice of words. She can't channel anyone, unless they're actually dead. Which Sherlock is definitely NOT, as she  _knows_ , because she can  _tell and more importantly feel,_ no matter what the papers, the telly or the police are saying.

_Sherlock Holmes is not dead._

And the only other person aware of that fact is sitting in silence behind her, waiting for her to speak.

"I would have followed him to the ends of the world." Joan says, challenge in her voice and posture, turning her head just a little. "In fact I still might."

"You certainly are capable." Mycroft agrees, unusually subdued. Few can tell with the elder Holmes, but Mycroft looks as if he's aged years in the matter of weeks. In such a merry chase Moriarty has had them all, that detangling all the threads of that particular web is a long and arduous process. At least the hype regarding Sherlock alleged fraud has started to die out. 

 _Small mercies,_ she thinks and then shudders a little.

"But would that be wise?" Mycroft enquires, almost deferring to her opinion. Joan knows he's ready to dissuade her with any means necessary, if she were to actively start looking for the detective, and to be frank, she wants to fight him on that, to scream at him until his ears bleed and be irrational about it, but she's a soldier and a doctor and she too analyzed the facts and reached the obvious conclusion. For now, going after Sherlock would reveal the whole ruse and put them all in danger. So she slumps her shoulders and turns back to watching the falling rain.

"No, it won't." Joan whispers, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

She also won't say out loud that the best argument, what's really stopping her, is the fact that each and every time she thinks about following Sherlock, the image of her, mad with grief, standing near his broken body, springs in her mind. And what's worse, she can't tell whether it's an actual warning or her memories playing up. But she can't risk it.

_She can't risk him._

Weary she draws a deep breath and slowly, as if remembering her manners, she turns once more to face her companion. "I would offer you a cup of tea, but…I seem to have misplaced the kettle."

She didn't actually, she knows exactly where the kettle is, but the kitchen, ever since they moved into the flat, has been largely Sherlock's domain. Test tubes and beakers, body parts and chemicals and the disappearing milk, Sherlock's presence it's so strong there she can't even set foot in it without falling into a trance. So she stopped going there after she lost three hours just following Sherlock around as he traveled from Dusseldorf to Berlin in a clever disguise as an elderly priest, until Mrs. Hudson had thankfully snapped her out of it. All that time she just stood in his shadow, drinking in the sight of him, not bloody and broken like a discarded marionette –  _and God that image is going to hunt her for life –_ but she hadn't been able to do or say anything to him. And in the end, that role of helpless observer almost drove her mad. And lately, it started happening all over the flat, making her feel like she's a breath away from falling over the edge.

"Have you decided then, what are you going to do?" Mycroft presses on, ignoring her strange quip about tea.

 _Has she decided?_ Joan can't honestly tell. How to act with her family, friends and coworkers? What to tell the world? Unbidden, Sherlock's final words spring in her mind and she chases them out with a burst of anger. _That stupid, stupid man. Why did he have to leave her behind?_

"Yes." She squares her shoulders, looking Mycroft directly in the eyes. "I can't stay here. And no, it's not about the rent money either."

"I can send someone to take away Sherlock's things, if that's the problem."

"Can they take the walls as well? Better yet, dismantle 221 Baker Street until there isn't a brick atop another brick? Because that's the only thing that could erase him from here. Probably not even that."

"I see." Mycroft shifts uneasy - Sherlock would have called that a victory - but Joan just doesn't care.  _No, you don't,_ she thinks uncharitably, but to be fair, Mycroft can't help it. No matter how brilliant the Holmes brothers are, their grasp on feelings was never that great. They could never really, see  _it_.

"I will send someone with alternative flat accommodations.", Mycroft continues after a moment of silence.

"Thank you." They can at least be civil with each other and she has no illusion that wherever she may go, she won't be under surveillance. At least, this way, it saves her the hassle of searching for a suitable abode.

"Also, for the foreseeable future, please leave every first Wednesday of the month free for the evening. A car will come to pick you up at seven." Somehow Mycroft sit straighter, as if he has reached a conclusion and he won't take no for an answer.

"Why?"

"Because that's when I have dinner. Besides, keeping an eye on you it's the least I can do while he's away."

Mycroft still has a long way to grovel until he can be forgiven, but she knows him well enough to tell this demand it's his awkward way of trying to mend things up. Of course, he wouldn't be Mycroft if he didn't wrapped it up and presented as if it's a privilege he's bestowing instead of what really is, an apology. And truthfully, Joan can't help but think things wouldn't have turned out so pear-shaped if the brothers would have learned to communicate earlier in life. She can, at least, give him a chance.

"Would that be wise? Won't people talk and reach the wrong conclusion?" she sends his earlier words back at him, trying to make him squirm. Of course, Mycroft is as composed as ever.

"I lost a brother and you… a best friend. Personal tragedies have been known to create strange bedfellows."

Joan can't help but snort at that notion, a glimmer of humor penetrating the bleakness of the day. "For how long?" she asks, testing him.

"For as long as necessary."

And that's a promise none of them will take lightly.


	8. Photographs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should have been Te amo, but what I have written makes more sense in this order.

Smoke snakes lazily upwards, dissipating in the already hazy air, while Sherlock watches lost in too many thoughts. It’s been three days since he holed himself in this hotel room, with regular room service his only measure for the passing of time.

It’s not that he eats more now that he used to, all the healthy habits Joan has tried to instill having died an early death while he was still in the beginning of his quest. Sherlock eats when he can’t wait any longer, mechanical motions that keep him going, he smokes now worse than before and he even flirted once with the 7% percent solution that always got him such disappointed looks from his roommate.

All his restrain from before, he did it for her, not willing to deal with the displeasure she radiated for hours, even days at the time, as he sometimes succumbed to the lure of his addictions. Now, she’s no longer by his side, he can do whatever he pleases.

And it shows in the state of the room. Stacks of paper are everywhere, handwritten notes intermingled with police reports, forensic photographs, newspaper clippings and an odd assortment of bits and pieces of fabric, metal, dried plants, soil samples and something that was once identifiable as food, but now would lead to poisoning or at least grave indigestion.

Smack in the middle of the mess, there are several pictures of men with unremarkable features and cruel eyes, and starting from the one placed in the middle of the wall, like tree branches reaching for the sky, there’s a complicated web of causal and interconnected events. Moriarty’s criminal web, or a part of to be more precise, since the face gracing the center photograph is not the evil genius but one of his lieutenants, of an unsavory fame even within the Italian Mafia.

Back in the day, this organized chaos would have gathered a long suffering sigh from Mrs. Hudson and at least one raised eyebrow from Joan, but for two years, rooms like these have become his thinking ground. And while the loss of complaining has left him, for some curious reason, with a strange hollow in the pit of his stomach, until now it has never impeded his work.

Sherlock sits in the middle of the room, barefooted and smoking like there’s no tomorrow - perfect working conditions. Except he can’t get his mind to focus on the matter at hand – the mug shot of the current criminal he’s pursuing in his self-appointed crusade against Moriarty’s criminal web – while those _other_ pictures are still scattered on the table.

He’s tried all his previous methods: sprawling on the sofa or perching on the armchair, yet his thoughts haven’t cleared, nor returned to the path he wanted them to go. They still circled around those damned photographs like hungry vultures.

Like a compass always pointing north, his gaze falls on them, even though he has them completely memorized.

Because the subject is her - giving her attention to another man. She’s smiling in most of the pictures, soft, sweet, genuine, just a lopsided curl of her lips, while her hair, longer than he remembers, cradles her face. There’s an air to her that he can identify, like a weight holding her down, and Sherlock can’t help but hope it’s because of him and for him. However her whole body, with her hands gently clasped in her lap is turned towards her companion and his expert knowledge of the human body and gestures interprets it correctly even if when he wants to deny it. She’s interested. In him, that nobody that’s currently holding her hand in one photograph where she looks particularly lovely.

His Joan, with a perfect stranger.

It makes him want to pace, which he does with jerky steps and nervous puffs from the rapidly burning cigarette. It makes him want to throw a tantrum which is fun only when there’s someone to be annoyed at him. It makes him want to take each glossy photograph and rip them neatly in half, until each evidence of him, the usurper, is forever erased.

_And what was she thinking, going on a date while he was away? When he’s not there to keep a keen eye on things?_

It’s not as if he’s been subtle about it. Crashing her dates with unreasonable requests, airing her date’s embarrassing little secrets for all to hear whenever she came around to introducing her current beau to her roommate, making a show of never remembering their names. Of course he hadn’t realized what he’d been doing at the time. Only after he has gave up to everything he built for the possibility of keeping her safe, and having felt no remorse for it, he had finally understood just how much she meant to him.

Joan is just as dangerous to him yet as seductive as the smoke dissipating in the barely lit room. Not as ethereal though, even when considering just how shockingly fragile is the human body at times, but for the effect she has on him. Like an addict, he craves her presence when she’s away, and these two years he spent chasing around the globe for Moriarty’s criminal web while she stayed in London, have been torture.

She has inexorably burrowed under his skin, and wrapped herself tightly around his hardened heart as the organ, thawed by her proximity, had no choice but to slowly beat again. _Badum, badum,_ each beat of his heart caries her name in his bloodstream until it has left its mark on every cell from his body. And oddly he's fine with that. Just like knowing that being a genius, a freak, a detective, a pain to the neck to other people is ingrained so hard in his being he is sure he'll never change; having Joan's mark inside him makes him fell curiously complete, even as he identifies it for what it is.

Love. Lust. Emotion. Chemical Imbalance.

Sentiment.

Oh, how he had scorned those particular word when faced with their brutal consequences in humankind’s behavior. His chosen profession has shown him the worst facade of humanity: thieves, cheaters, rapists and murderers, most acting in the name of the almighty sentiment. Just an excuse for losing of rationality and common sense, in the end.

He has thought of himself to be one of the fortunate ones, having always preferred a nice cold blooded murder to a crime of passion.

Until now, that is. Because seeing that photographic evidence has made him realize just how like the others he really was when it came to sentiments. He scans the image he as in his hand, taking in all the clues hidden in there. Her posture, gentle smile, manner of dress. The man’s smug satisfaction on having her attention, his evident happiness. A nobody, this three-piece-suit, normal, boring pencil-pusher who has stepped in, causing Sherlock’s metaphorical hackles to rise at the challenge. He barely resists the impulse to tear the image apart, until the other man’s presence is completely removed, and then does it anyway the motion sending a thrill of accomplishment in his belly.

It’s irrational, but Sherlock revels in it. And his mind finally made up, he picks his phone and calls the only person he knows can make things go his way.

He’s using a big favor this time, but the situation is worth it.

Three hours later, an unsuspecting Matthew Morstan is taken into a black limousine by two people who identify themselves as Mr. Brown and Mr. Smith, never to be seen again by his colleagues and friends.

**TBC.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock ate my brain, so I decided to have a look at all those notes I've buried in the computer a year ago regarding this story and see if I could make a chapter out of them. It turns out I actually have too much material and my lack of updates has been due to not knowing what to choose from it, rather than not having anything written. I know, silly me.
> 
> Hopefully this will make someone happy. :)


	9. Te amo

For once Mycroft Holmes can admit, in the privacy of his mind, to a certain level of unease as he climbs the stairs to Joan’s current one-bedroom apartment. He is the bearer of bad news, and he can only hope, somewhat foolishly considering her _gift_ , that Joan is not aware of how much he was the one responsible for what happened. Because, in that case, he stands to lose one of the few people he considered close. Almost family.

Mycroft is as composed as ever when he taps the door twice. It’s Wednesday, the first day of the month and as per their arrangement, Joan must surely know who is at the door, yet she doesn’t answer immediately. He tries again, dread slowly pooling in his stomach.

When she opens the door, Mycroft has all his hopes dashed. She’s been crying, wet track still visible on her cheeks and Mycroft internally winces when her quiet, but accusing gaze stops on him.

Joan moves, faster than a striking cobra and the sound of the slap echoes in the hallway. His face is turned to the side, only the twitching of his jaw betraying his annoyance, and Mycroft grips the umbrella tighter.

“Was that really necessary?” with an effort he makes himself sounding almost normal.

Joan clenches her fist as if restraining herself from delivering another slap. She takes a deep breath and then she speaks her tone is low and threatening. “This time you went too far. Stop interfering with my life, Mycroft.” They hold gazes for a moment, message sent and received, and as Joan starts closing the door, his hands shoots out to stop her.

“You know I can’t promise you that.” Mycroft leans forward, is just as resolute as her, and then he quickly takes a step back when Joan closes the door forcefully.

Several moments later in the limousine, his assistant does a subtle double-take at the reddening imprint on his cheek, but she’s too well trained to ask questions. They ride in silence back to his office, where Mycroft opens a side drawer, takes out a metallic box and enters a personal code. The lids pops open revealing an ordinary looking phone.

Powering it up, Mycroft texts just one message before shutting it down and securing it once more.

_Problem solved. You have six months to wrap things up, before I take matters into my own hands. MH_

**TBC.**


	10. Cold case love

The day when her world tilts its axis one more time Joan wakes up not in the bed where she felt asleep. The mattress is incredibly soft, the sheets smell of lavender and fresh air and the room is bigger than her whole apartment.

Anyone in her place would feel at least some apprehension waking up in an unknown place, but Joan just lets out a heartfelt sigh.

_Finally._

The dreams have hinted more than once that the mourning was to be over soon, but she had quenched her hope, not knowing if what she was seeing was the future or just her wishful thinking.

With trembling fingers Joan dresses with the clothes neatly folded on a nearby armchair. They are hers, and Joan just shakes her head at yet another invasion of her privacy. She has learned long ago that when one is living with a Holmes brother and having the other brother on speed-dial, one quickly learns that privacy is nothing but an illusion.

“Enough stalling”, Joan chides herself and when there’s nothing to be done, she exists the bedroom only to stop short when faced with the man having a cup of tea in the antechamber.

Despite only seeing his back, she could never mistake the hair, the posture, the suit and a loud gasp escapes her lips, while joy and a healthy dose of anger war inside her. Joan is torn between reactions, and her hands itch with the need to touch him, to make sure he’s real with either a slap or a crushing hug.

She’s practically vibrating from restrain and with measured moves she takes the chair opposite him and pours herself a cup of tea, hands perfectly steady.

Throughout all this Sherlock doesn’t say a word, yet his pale eyes are on her the moment she enters his vision. For her part, Joan suddenly finds the cup fascinating.

 _It’s strange but it shouldn’t be so hard to look at him_ , she thinks, yet at the same time she can’t seem to be able to lift her head.

“Joan”, Sherlock says, voice deeper and scratchier than she remembered, and then she jerks up and then she can’t stop looking at him.

He is older, hair shorter now that she can properly examine him, and there are also a few lines on his face that weren’t there two and a half years ago. Yet, for all the subtle differences he’s still Sherlock, there, in front of her and not running for his life in some forgotten corner of the world while bullets whiz by him - she used to have such vivid dreams. He’s there, unharmed, older, wiser, more settled down.

Just as she’s drinking in the sight of him, he’s also examining her with eyes that see everything. She too is older, worn down by life and worries, yet his expression never changes until he sees the ring she still has on her finger.

A simple gold band, with a solitary diamond embedded in it, and Sherlock grimaces as if he’s personally offended by its presence.

“Why?” his tone is almost without inflection, but his eyes never leave the glint of gold resting on her finger.

“Why what?” Joan asks hands folded in her lap.

“Why would you marry him?” Sherlock says, as if he’s interrogating a suspect, but his clenched fists scream at her his thoughts - _Especially when you knew I wasn’t dead and that I will be coming back to you._

 _Did I really know that?_ She wonders, just as she too glances at the ring for a brief moment. “Because sometimes you don’t just assume things, Sherlock. Sometimes they need to be spoken out loud.”

“Is that why you were prepared to do it? Because he asked you?”

“Strange, isn’t it? That it should be that simple.”

He purses his lips and in the gazing contest they seem to be having Sherlock is the first to look away. He knows all her unasked questions, and now face to face with her, the detective finds that he can’t give her a satisfactory answer.

“You know Sherlock. I would have followed you all the way.”

“I know.”

“But that doesn’t give you the right to do what you did. What you asked Mycroft to do.”

He freezes, but doesn’t deny it. Joan sometimes wonders if he really understands what she can do and see. Probably no more than she can read him.

“And on that note, if you ever do that to me again, I’m going to disappear from your life and nobody would ever find me again.”

“A challenge?”

“No Sherlock. A promise.” And because she just can’t stand it anymore Joan gets up, goes round the table and stops on his right.

“Get up,” she says voice roughed over by too many emotions. He does so slowly, not backing down, but not coming closer either.

And in the end it’s Joan that takes that final step separating them as she just gives in the need that has been growing inside her since the moment she woke up. She hugs him tightly, head nestled on his shoulder as she just breathes him in. He smells like Sherlock, but he also smells like a thousand different places that have left their mark on him and she gets a glimpse of each and every one in a dizzying array of colors and impressions.

Swept in the turmoil she can’t help it but tighten her hold on him, breathing him in and out until there’s nothing but the two of them standing in a room. “You know, this doesn’t mean that I’m not still spitting mad at you,” Joan says, voice muffled by his jacket.

“I know”, his voice rumbles above and around her and finally his arms come around her in a grip tight enough to steal her breath.

**TBC.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the count I gave in the summary, tomorrow I should be uploading the last chapter - The last song, but the break has been good to something and in the meantime Rihanna has released two more songs that I want to play with. Good news, yes? :)


	11. Skin (bonus track)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the first one of the two bonus tracks I've written for this universe. Hopefully it won't fall like a bag of bricks, since this piece (like the song it was inspired from), is probably the closest thing to a M rating due to sexual content that I've ever written. And then you are all going to be pissed and/or fall of your chairs laughing because it is so lame.
> 
> So enjoy? 'cringes';
> 
> Rating: M - just to cover my bases.
> 
> Warning: fem!John (Joan Watson), seduction writing fail...

Two months. He's been back for that long, yet they still aren't flat mates, because when the thrill of the chase is over and the case is solved Joan packs her things and goes to sleep back in her small flat.

Sherlock hates it, the silence that conquers 221B Baker Street in the exact moment she leaves through the door.

No one and nothing can be in her place. The skull has long lost its effectiveness as a suitable conversationalist the moment the good doctor had first moved in, and Mrs. Hudson had her own special place in his universe. And somehow, Joan leaving every night sets a ripple of discontent, like a broken wheel jamming the fine mechanism that should be his life.

It bears repeating, he hates seeing her turn around and leave, it feels like a slash across his heart every time she does it. Funny of how long he could have sworn he didn't have one, until his dark counterpart brought it in the open and forced him to reexamine his long held belief.

And now, his heart is leaving him every night.

_But not tonight,_ he thinks and narrows his eyes as Joan reaches for her coat in silence, unconsciously slowing down her movement as if she's waiting for that one thing that can make her stay. She does this every time, but so far he has stayed silent.

He can tell she's already thinking about trivial things like the shopping she needs to do, when he unfolds from his seat and goes near her. He's so close that the heat radiating from him penetrates her clothes and sends a shiver all along her spine. His long, elegant fingers close over hers and delicately take away her coat.

"Sherlock?" She asks, softly and breathless. His right hand ghosts over hers, until he closes his fist over her wrist, and her pulse spikes. He comes closer, impossibly so, until her back is perfectly aligned with his front and his breath stirs the tiny hairs at the back of her neck. Then he dips lower, lips almost brushing the delicate shell of her left ear as he whispers: "Stay tonight."

Her knees almost turn to jelly and it's with considerable will power that she doesn't fall in an undignified heap at his feet. She moves her hand, grabs his and then brings their intertwined digits up until they can both gaze upon them.

The gold band on her engagement finger shines accusatory and Sherlock hisses like it burns where it touches his skin.

"Take that off," he demands, voice almost growling.

"It won't come off that easily," she answers, standing up to him.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, and then still holding her right hand he maneuvers them until they're standing face to face, with one arm possessively clutching her by her navel.

"He's never coming back." He says, tightening his grip.

"Yes, but going away doesn't always mean the end. You should know." She says each word almost as if they have to be pulled out of her mouth. She can barely keep her thoughts straight with him standing so close.

He changes his grip and brings the hand he has captured to his lips almost contemplatively, slowly kissing each knuckle, then gently he sucks her ring finger in his mouth, while she almost closes her eyes, thoughts scattered like a flock of scared pigeons. She never knew her fingers could be so sensitive, each wet caress sending a wave of heat all over her body that slowly pools in her belly.

She almost doesn't notice when he carefully clamps his teeth around her finger and with one slow pull, he drags the ring until it's off. He spits it down in his palm, and as Joan watches with arousal, incredulity and suspicion mixing inside her, for one moment Sherlock looks as if he wants to fling it at the wall. A heartbeat later she takes it away, tugging a little when he doesn't want to let go and carefully places the ring in her pocket.

They are frozen, still caught in that too close embrace he initiated, when he takes a deep breath, shifts his shoulders until the hug is no longer a show of dominance but of more affectionate possession and then he nuzzles her jaw. "See, that wasn't so difficult. Now, will you stay the night?"

Joan lets out a laugh that sounds almost as a sob, quickly aborted when he starts to place delicate kisses on her jaw while moving his way to the corner of her mouth. She doesn't have to say it out loud for both of them to know the truth, she could never really say NO to him.

**TBC.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote this piece some time ago, I didn't think that one day the show it's going to make canon the fact that Sherlock can, and will use seduction to get what he wants. Only in my verse it's not Jeanine, but someone in whom he has much more invested in, and who, in his mind must be tied to him in as many ways as humanly possible. So there...:D
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> Para


	12. Stay (bonus track)

Sherlock sleeps like a log, as if all the manic energy he uses during daylight needs to be recharged with stillness during night. It’s a not a common sight, since the occasions when he would fall asleep with her still keeping watch had been so very few, even after their long years together. Most nights after they would separate from their passionate embrace, he would stare out, thinking, while she succumbed to her dreams.

Not tonight, though. There’s a salt and pepper fringe falling down his forehead and Joan can’t, or better yet _won’t,_ resist the impulse to reach out and gently put it behind his ear. Joan never did particularly like men’s hair – the thickness, the coarser feel of it, even the smell, but Sherlock’s is like no one else’s. Her fingers glide through it and Joan feels as if she could caress it all night long. Especially since Sherlock is asleep and not huffing impatiently, to make her stop, because he has better things to do than just stay there and let her play with his hair. Yet, for all his grumbling, he usually stills when she starts petting, as if he’s a well fed cat.

Her fingers trail lower,  her touch feather light, while the tips are barely tracing the elegant arch of his cheekbone, the smoothness of his brow – despite his age – the curve of his ear.

He looks so vulnerable when he’s asleep, she wants to take him in her arms and never let him go. Her heart swells with love, so much that’s almost painful, and she thinks that no matter what happens, today, tomorrow, next week or an eternity from then, she will always love him like she’s never loved any other man.

She settles closer to him, her gentle breathing causing a few loose hairs to stir and then she closes her eyes. Whatever tomorrow brings, here and now is her moment.

TBC.


	13. The last song

Sherlock sleeps almost all the time now, lucid dreams brought by morphine intersected with stark reality. He sometimes thinks that this is the way his body is trying to recuperate all the hours he spent chasing after thrills and mystery - a fanciful notion, he knows - and he can almost see Joan’s affectionate smile were he to say such a thing aloud. 

 His ‘transport’ might be failing him, but his mind is agile as ever. He can tell with a glance who has been the last person to come to visit him by the type of flowers they sit at his bedside – Caroline; the way the visitor’s chair is tilted towards his bed – Mycroft, or how doctor’s notes have been rifled with – Aidan. There are other visitors, others whose lives he has touched during his long live as the World’s only Consultant Detective, but they don’t matter, faces deleted the moment they departed.

No, the important ones are those coming back day after day.

During the day, Aidan is always the first to visit, before the sky gets the first rays of sunshine, his sleeping habits as bad as his uncle’s. Sherlock looks at him and sees the Eton and Bart’s educated brain surgeon, brilliant and accomplished over imposed  on  the image of the seven-year-old, a white faced and visibly discomfited Mycroft had brought to 221 B Baker St. one day, and introduced as his son, no mother mentioned. A shell-shocked Sherlock had had a difficult time controlling his reactions which unfortunately degenerated in the worst spat he had with his brother until Joan had snapped and put them both in her own version of a timeout. In her best version of Captain Watson at her most annoyed, she had given them one hour to sort out their differences and then took the silent boy to a trip to the park. By the time she had arrived back, a truce has been established – Aidan would come to visit every week, since they were, in Mycroft own words, nauseatingly domestic and the boy would benefit from the environment, while the child had come back from the trip with a case of adoration for one Doctor Watson that never faded in time. Par per course with Holmes men, as Sherlock can testify.

He also knows that the initial awkward introduction between the two of them means that they have never been, nor will be perfect at ease with each other with Joan not playing mediator. They are truly too much alike, down to their fascination with dangerous women – Aidan first marriage has ended literally in flames - but from the subtle clues Sherlock can spot, the crease of the shirt, the newness of the shoes and the subtle way in which the young man carries himself whenever he comes to visit, a romantic relationship is slowly developing with most likely a colleague of his.  

_Good,_ the old detective thinks. The boy he has come to see as more than just a nephew, his eldest as his wife tends to call him, and whose lack of domestic happiness had always troubled Joan, seems like he’s finally content.

The next to come, and usually in the evening is Caroline. Caroline Holmes, their miracle child, born when Joan had thought of herself as too old to carry a child without risk, and Sherlock had been too terrified of the thought of being a father. She always comes and sits with him by his bed, recalling her most challenging cases as a forensic anthropologist, now that she has to stay at home, her youngest son only four months old. She’s pale and still tired after the second difficult pregnancy, but with Frederick Holmes Lestrade is a happy bundle resting in his beaming father’s arms, she too, looks content. Sometimes when she talks to him she stops and looks at the window, then smiles and leans over to kiss him gently on his cheek. He’s never been at ease with physical affection, but for her, he bears it with barely a sigh.   

When she leaves, with promises to come back the next day, Sherlock closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep while the nurse bustles through the room, her moves quick and efficient. He knows that he won’t be left alone for long; his brother always comes to keep him company in the long hours of the night. Mycroft is well in his eighties, round and bald but with his mind just as sharp and cutting behind his glasses, having ruled the United Kingdom from the shadows for almost three decades. People look and a see a charming, sometimes odd older gentlemen and mostly ignore him the way they do with things past their prime. _More the fools, them,_ Sherlock thinks, for they see but don’t _understand_. Sherlock has long made his peace, and he knows that whatever happens, Mycroft will take care of things.

But now, at the moment caught between light and dark, as the last rays on sunlight filter between the drapes gently moving in the current let by the open window, Sherlock turns his head and sees _her,_ the glow of the setting sun lighting her figure _._ As always, she’s right next to him, waiting patiently for him to start his next great adventure, and now there’s only the two of them in the room.

Sherlock smiles, eyes soft and happy. “I’m tired, my heart. Take me home.”

As he falls asleep for the last time, ghostly lips brush against his brow. _“Come when you are ready, my love. I’m waiting for you.”_

**End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been one of my favorite stories and I can't believe I've reached its end. I have so many notes still left, but I know that they will be better served by another, fresh beginning. I want to give a BIG THANK YOU to all of you who commented and left me kudos, seeing those always managed to brighten up my day, no matter what happened in between. I hope your journey reading has at least as enjoyable as mine while writing this. I'm sending you all a big hug!
> 
> With love,  
> Paralelsky


End file.
